


keeping it together

by Remy (iamremy)



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt!Ethan, Hurt!Will, M/M, Plotless pointless gratuitous fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3152843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/Remy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small in-between moment - Ethan and Will arrive at their safehouse after a tough mission, a day before Jane and Benji. Cue fixing up injuries and dealing with tiny beds and space issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	keeping it together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Talithax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/gifts).



> I needed a pick-me-up because of all the exam stress getting to me. So I wrote this tiny thing. It wasn't supposed to go over 1.5K at the max, but my stories have a way of getting away from me.
> 
> This is for Claire, as a thank-you for her wonderful writing and for being an awesome friend :) I hope you like it, buddy <33

Ethan tries, he really does, to not get blood everywhere but going by the trail he's making as he staggers through the entrance to the safehouse, he's failing. Just behind him Will's cursing, gun still pointed at something neither of them can see, and then he gets in behind Ethan and shuts the door and locks it. He doesn't put the gun down, though, not until he's ascertained that there's no threat to them anymore.

“We're safe,” he declares, and Ethan nods at him. He finds himself suddenly unable to move from the utter fatigue of keeping his shit together for so long, and just collapses on the sofa, not giving a fuck that he's bloodying it up. IMF's probably pretty used to agents ruining the furniture in their safehouses anyway.

Will sets his gun down on the coffee table and sits next to Ethan, carefully prying his fingers from where he's got them pressed to his side. “Let me take a look at that,” he says, and Ethan lets him lift the hem of his shirt till he can see the long, deep gash starting just over the peak of his hipbone and ending somewhere over his ribs. Will prods at it, eliciting a sharp gasp from Ethan.

“Careful!”

“Sorry,” Will says apologetically, but carries right on. “Gonna have to stitch that up,” he announces a moment later. “But you're lucky. Didn't go deep enough to hit any organs or anything.”

“You're hurt too,” Ethan points out – he hasn't missed how Will's doing everything with his right hand, his left arm dangling uselessly. “You've dislocated your arm.”

“I'm fine,” dismisses Will, but Ethan's having none of it.

“Let me take care of that,” he offers. “I can do it. You probably need both hands to stitch me up anyway.”

Will considers this. Rational side evidently winning out in the end, he nods at Ethan and says, “Fine, go for it.”

Ethan stands, and says, “Ready?”

Will nods again, squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself. Ethan puts one hand on his shoulder and the other on his bicep, resolutely doesn't look at Will's face, and pops the joint back in its place.

Will yells in agony, eyes flying open, and immediately Ethan's cradling his face. “Sorry, I'm so sorry, Will, it had to be done–”

“I know, it's fine, it's fine,” Will replies through gritted teeth, and offers Ethan a smile that looks more like a grimace. “It's not the first time. Here, let me fix you up.”

He rises from the couch and goes off in search of the first aid kit that's stashed away in every safehouse. It doesn't take him longer than a minute to find it, and he returns to see Ethan leaning back against the couch, eyes closed. “Hey,” he says, and Ethan opens his eyes. “You okay?”

Ethan nods. “Like you said, not the first time.” He tries to take off his shirt but grimaces when the movement pulls at his wound. “Just cut it off,” he instructs, and Will does that.

He takes another moment to look at the wound, and then says, “Want me to get you whiskey? It'll make it hurt less.”

“No,” Ethan tells him. “Can't afford to drink right now.”

“Okay.” Will accepts this, and says, “I'm gonna need you to move your arm so I can get to your wound. This will hurt, so brace yourself, all right?”

Ethan does so, gritting his teeth and grabbing a handful of his discarded shirt. “Be careful.”

“You know I will.” Will pulls on a pair of latex gloves, removes the surgical needle from its protective wrapping and threads it. “I'm gonna start now.”

Ethan winces when he feels the needle enter his skin, hisses when the thread slides through, feeling thick and coarse. Will works unapologetically, though, staying silent, remaining focused – as always, doing what needs to be done. He's not very different from Ethan when it comes to that, and Ethan thinks that's probably why they work so well together. They're both so different, and yet, so similar when it counts.

“You think Jane and Benji will be okay?” Ethan asks presently, unable to bear the silence for longer.

“Mm-hmm,” Will hums in reply, not really speaking.

“How much left?” The pain's somewhat tolerable now that he's used to it, or maybe he's just not paying attention. He'd rather watch Will work anyway, the way his fingers fly in and out and fix him up skilfully, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, his entire body tense and laser-focused like Ethan's something that needs to be patched up perfectly so that there aren't any cracks left.

“Almost done,” murmurs Will. He knots it off and cuts the thread, and chucks the needle into the trash. He observes his handiwork, then puts gauze over it and tapes it down before pulling off his gloves and trashing those too. “Don't pull at it,” he warns Ethan, indicating his side. “I'm gonna go fix us something to eat now.”

Ethan watches the way Will moves, grimacing as he stands, working to conceal a limp and not quite succeeding. He has his suspicions that the dislocated shoulder wasn't the worst of Will's injuries, but he knows how Will hates being put on the spot, and decides to wait a little. If Will's walking around it can't be that bad.

Except Will hisses out in pain when his thigh collides with the counter in the kitchenette, and Ethan is immediately at his side. “Sit down,” he orders, and all but forces Will into the dining chair in the kitchen.

“I'm fine,” Will protests, but Ethan's having none of it; he pushes up Will's shirt and all but tears his pants off him, drawing in a sharp intake of breath at the mottled blue and black flesh before him.

“What happened to you?” he breathes, eyes traveling down Will's bruised thighs to his equally banged-up shins, to his left ankle, where the sock is stiff in a way cloth usually isn't.

“Got into a, ahh, disagreement,” Will tells him, not looking him in the eye. “With our target's gangster buddies.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” demands Ethan. The bruises aren't that old, which means it happened today. Probably when Will had decided to take on a bunch of psychos on his lonesome to provide his team with the chance to escape with their target.

“You were hurt worse,” Will replies.

“That's bullshit,” Ethan tells him squarely. He leads Will back to the couch and, without waiting for permission, takes off his right shoe and sock. And yep, there it is – a gash carved horizontally in the arch of Will's foot, probably to make sure he can't move as fast as he'd like.

“Who did this?” he asks, scrutinizing the cut closely. It's not deep and it's not bleeding, but because Will didn't immediately take care of it it's not looking very good either. Plus he's been in those socks all day and they reek of sweat. Ethan can only hope it's not infected.

“One of the dudes, the guy in the ugly yellow tracksuit,” shrugs Will, like it's no big deal. “Seriously, Ethan, leave it be, I can take care of it.”

“Like fuck you can,” Ethan retorts, and grabs the first aid kit. He doesn't bother with a warning (it always hurts worse when you're expecting it, for some reason) before he dabs peroxide across the cut, and Will cries out.

“ _Ethan!”_

“I'm sorry,” Ethan says at once, and rubs the pad of Will's foot with his thumb in order to provide some comfort. He waits till Will doesn't look like he's going to yell, and then slathers it in antibiotic and antifungal cream and covers it with a gigantic Band-Aid. “You should have told me,” he says, straightening.

“I was gonna take care of it myself, later,” Will sighs, slumping against the back of the couch.

“We're a team, Will,” Ethan tells him, heading off into the kitchen. “And more than that, we're partners. You've got to let me take care of you.”

Will doesn't answer. Ethan looks over his shoulder to find Will watching him, analyst game-face on. “And don't do that,” he says. “Will, for once – just don't think about it.”

“Okay,” Will agrees, but doesn't stop watching Ethan. Ethan sighs - this is clearly a battle he's not going to win - and opens the small fridge to find some juice, and a microwave dinner in the freezer. He makes a mental note to discuss food supplies in safehouses with the Director, whenever they next meet. But for now this is all they have. It doesn't take long for him to prepare it, and he puts it all on a tray and carries it to Will, remaining leery of not pulling at his stitches.

“You're still shirtless,” Will says when Ethan sits down.

“You like the view,” teases Ethan in response. Will doesn't reply, just grins tiredly at him and digs into his food.

For all his enthusiasm, though, he doesn't eat much, notes Ethan. He mainly just makes sure Ethan's eating. “Will,” Ethan sighs in exasperation after a few minutes of this. “I'm fine, babe. You gotta stop fussing and look after yourself for a change.”

“Who says I'm fussing?” asks Will rhetorically, but eats more now that Ethan's called him out on it.

They end up crashing on one of the two beds in the small bedroom, squeezed together back to back even though they're grown men and it's a small bed. Ethan turns, wraps his arms around Will's middle and notes that under the fresh smell of soap after his shower, Will still smells of blood. He knows he himself probably smells of it as well, despite having showered and put on fresh clothes too. Or maybe it's just him imagining it. Maybe he's so accustomed to the sight and smell of blood that he sees and feels it in places it isn't.

“Jane called while you were in the shower,” he mutters into Will's hair. “She says they're safe. They should be here tomorrow.”

“Mm,” is Will's sleepy reply. “Did she say about the target?”

“All's well,” Ethan tells him vaguely, and shifts so that he's more comfortable, Will's back pressed against his chest. “At least, that's all she said. She'll tell us more when they arrive here.”

“Be careful,” Will mutters at him. “About your wound. Don't want you stretchin' and endin' up making it worse.” His voice has begun to slur slightly from exhaustion; already the g's at the end of his verbs are disappearing.

“I'll be careful,” promises Ethan. He's beginning to have his doubts about sharing the bed – what if he moves in his sleep and accidentally hits one of Will's numerous bruises? They've always shared one bed and left the other for Jane or Benji (whoever draws the short straw), so it seemed natural to do the same now; but Ethan's still worried and he shifts again, trying to make sure Will's got enough space to move comfortably.

“Stop moving,” comes Will's muffled voice, sounding annoyed. “Swear to God, Ethan, it's like there's a fuckin' rodent in your pants.”

“Sorry,” whispers Ethan, and accidentally kicks Will in the shins.

“OW – _what the fuck, Ethan?"_

“Sorry,” repeats Ethan. “Look – why don't I just take the other bed? You're bruised all over and I've got stitches from my ribs to my hip. If we sleep in one bed we might accidentally hurt each other.”

Will raises his head from the pillow and blearily regards Ethan. As always, his logic wins out and he says, “Fine. But just for tonight,” he adds.

“Seeing as this time tomorrow we'll probably be on a plane back to the States, it's kind of a moot point,” Ethan says, but hastily adds, “but okay,” when Will huffs and rolls his eyes.

“And he calls me the overly logical one,” he mumbles to no one in particular, and pulls the sheets over his head.

Ethan just smiles even though he knows Will can't see him, and makes his way to the other bed. “Goodnight, Will,” he says when he's settled in, lying on his side so he's facing Will across the small gap between the beds.

Will emerges from the covers and grins at him. “'Night,” he yawns, and ducks back under the comforter.

* * *

Ethan's woken in the middle of the night by his comforter being unceremoniously taken off him and a weight falling on one side of his bed. Immediately his hand goes to his gun under his pillow, but then he hears, “Relax, it's me,” and he clicks the safety back on.

“Will, what're you doing?” he hisses, already alert, all vestiges of sleep vanishing. The other agent's not-so-subtly shoving at him, poking him in his uninjured side, trying to get him to move. One look at the neon lettering on the alarm clock shows him it's just after half past two.

“You won't move,” Will replies matter-of-fact, one knee already on the bed. “Where'm I supposed to _fit?”_

Ethan blinks in confusion. “I thought we were sleeping in different beds tonight?”

“Was your idea, not mine,” mumbles Will, and yawns. “Now _move_ , I'm sleepy.”

Ethan sighs but obliges. He waits until Will's settled with his back against Ethan's chest, the comforter over them both, Will's toes digging into his calves, and then says, “I thought you were okay with the change in plans.”

“I was,” Will answers, making himself comfortable like he has an honest-to-God birthright to the bed. “Until I realized it just felt too weird. I couldn't stay asleep. Didn't have anybody's cold-ass toes terrorizing me in the middle of the night,” he adds with a grin.

“My toes aren't cold.” Ethan puts up the token protest, but he's already got his arm around Will's middle and if he's being honest with himself, well, it _is_ easier to sleep with Will sharing with him. He's become too used to it, and sleeping alone just feels odd now. “You comfortable?” he asks.

“Mm.” Will sounds half-asleep already. “You?”

“Yeah.” Ethan moves so that he doesn't get a faceful of Will's hair every time he breathes in, and then says, “Goodnight, Will. And don't wake me up like that next time, I nearly shot you in the face.”

“Oh please, you wouldn't have, you fuckin' _adore_ my face,” dismisses Will, and really, where is the lie? Ethan's gonna be the bigger man here and admit that Will's not wrong at all.

He laughs quietly to himself. “Don't talk now, I'm tired as hell,” he tells Will, suppressing a yawn of his own. He's looking forward to the long-ass plane journey for once, if only so he can sleep his fill. Or at least, try to.

“Mm, whatever. 'Night,” Will mumbles. Within a couple of minutes he's asleep, and Ethan follows not long after.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You know what makes me happy? Comments. All the comments. I'm a comment whore, I'm not even gonna lie.
> 
> Love,  
> Remy x


End file.
